“Me good fella boy,” the black answered with an effort. “Me fella missionary!”
“Then you say one fella prayer damn quick!”
Kimball rained blow after blow on his face. The savage shrieked with agony. In the shadow, the blacks shuffled uneasily, like a herd of cattle ready to stampede, but the white man seemingly gave them no heed.
At last, the punishment completed, he jerked the bow and arrows from the unresisting hand of his victim and, whirling him suddenly, gave him a kick and a shove which landed him on all fours in the midst of the others. Then, turning, seemingly ignoring the thoroughly frightened blacks, he reëntered the house.
Throwing the bow and arrows on the table, he poured himself a stiff drink of gin and downed it at a gulp. And then, sitting down beside the table, he picked up the weapon and examined it gingerly.
“Poisoned!” he remarked casually to the man lying on the bed. “I knocked bloody hell out of Tulagi as a lesson to the rest of ’em. They’re getting insolent, with only one of us to handle ’em. Wish to heaven you were up and around again.”
“Upon the platform, eh?” the sick man listlessly inquired.
Kimball nodded.
“They’re gettin’ bold,” he said shortly. “Five hundred niggers are too many for one man to keep straight. It’s been plain hell since you went down—and then the dog had to turn up his toes. When Donaldson comes in next week with the Scary-Saray we’ll have to send after a new nigger-chaser. Chipin’s got a couple extra ones he’s been trainin’ over at Berande.”
The sick man rolled over with a groan.